dead mirrors

dead mirrors become photographs. you thought you were safe biting your lip, opening up your legs like a baby chicken learning to walk. your breath fogs up the glass as you speak words you never learned in church, you listened to the preacher with a thump thump thump in your make-boys-want-to-talk-to-you place. buttons of your polo are welded bolts.

dead mirrors become photographs. haul them to the dump so mom can't see, the foil melts like a book that dips its foot in a stream. you take out your compact at the park, the mirror dies, traps a bird in the air that might as well have been a stone tossed and falling

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